When My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Our Unborn Child

The rain started just as we merged onto the FDR Drive.

I watched the wipers drag across the windshield—back and forth, back and forth—and tried to remember if I'd ever seen Gideon this tense on our anniversary before. His jaw was tight. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The reservation at Marea was for seven-thirty. It was seven-fifteen. We were going to make it.

I put my hand on my stomach. Eight weeks. We hadn't told anyone yet. I'd been waiting for tonight—champagne replaced with sparkling water, his face when I slid the ultrasound photo across the table. I had it in my purse. Black and white. A tiny blur that was ours.

"Traffic's not bad," I said.

Gideon didn't answer.

His phone lit up on the dash. The name on the screen made my chest go tight.

*Margot.*

He grabbed it before the second ring. "Hello?"

I looked out the window. The East River was dark and choppy. The city lights blurred in the rain.

"When?" Gideon's voice changed. Softer. The way it never was with me anymore. "Are you okay?"

I dug my nails into my palm.

"I'm on my way," he said.

Wait.

"Gideon—"

He ended the call and yanked the wheel right. The car lurched. Horns blared. He cut across two lanes and accelerated hard.

"What are you doing?" My voice came out thin.

"Margot's divorce was finalized today. She's—" He shook his head. "She's not okay. I have to go."

The speedometer climbed. Sixty. Sixty-five.

"We have a reservation," I said. "It's our anniversary."

"Freya, she needs me."

Seventy.

The car in front of us had brake lights. Red. Bright. Too close.

"Gideon—"

He slammed the brakes. The tires screamed. We hit.

The impact snapped my head forward. The seatbelt locked across my chest. My purse flew off my lap. The ultrasound photo slid under the seat.

For a second, everything was silent except the rain.

Then Gideon swore and shoved his door open. He got out. Shouted something at the other driver. I sat there, hands shaking, trying to breathe. My stomach didn't hurt. That was good. That meant the baby was okay.

Gideon got back in. His hair was wet. He didn't look at me.

"I have to go," he said.

"What?"

"Margot can't be alone right now. I'll call a car for you."

He pulled over onto the shoulder. Gravel crunched under the tires. He put the car in park and looked at me for the first time since the phone rang.

"You'll be fine," he said. "The car's drivable. Just wait here."

I stared at him. Rain hammered the roof.

"You're leaving me here?"

"I'll send someone. Just—stay in the car."

He opened the door again.

"Gideon, I'm pregnant."

The words came out flat. I hadn't meant to say them like that. I'd had a plan. Candlelight. His hand over mine.

He froze halfway out of the car. Turned back. His face was unreadable.

"What?"

"Eight weeks," I said. My voice cracked. "I was going to tell you tonight."

He looked at me. Then at his phone. The screen lit up again.

*Margot.*

"We'll talk about this later," he said.

And he left.

I sat there. Watched his taillights disappear into the rain. The other driver was on his phone, pacing. He didn't look at me.

I got out of the car.

The rain soaked through my dress in seconds. My heels sank into the gravel. I walked to the guardrail and gripped it with both hands. The river was black below. The city was a smear of light across the water.

Something cramped low in my stomach.

I pressed my hand there. Waited. It came again. Sharper.

No.

I turned back toward the car. My heel caught. I went down hard on the asphalt. Pain shot up my side. The cramp turned into something bigger. Something wrong.

I tried to get up. Couldn't.

Someone was shouting. A man's voice. Not Gideon.

Hands on my shoulders. "Ma'am? Ma'am, can you hear me?"

I looked up. A stranger. Middle-aged. Glasses. He had his phone out.

"I'm calling 911," he said.

The rain was warm on my face. Or maybe that was blood. I couldn't tell.

"My husband," I said.

"Where is he?"

I closed my eyes.

"He left."

The ambulance came. They put me on a stretcher. Loaded me in. The stranger rode with me. He held my hand. I didn't know his name.

The ER was bright. Too bright. A doctor with kind eyes and a tired voice told me what I already knew.

"I'm sorry. There's no heartbeat."

I lay there. Stared at the ceiling tiles. Counted them. Forty-two.

No one called.

No one came.

At some point, a nurse asked if there was someone she could contact. I gave her Gideon's number. She stepped out. Came back five minutes later.

"It went to voicemail," she said gently. "Do you have anyone else?"

I shook my head.

She stayed with me for a while. Adjusted my IV. Brought me a blanket. When her shift ended, she squeezed my hand.

"I'm so sorry," she said.

I didn't cry. I couldn't. There was just the quiet. And the cold.

Somewhere in Manhattan, Gideon was with Margot. Holding her. Telling her it would be okay.

I stared at the ceiling and felt something inside me go still.

Forty-two tiles.

I counted them again.

And again.

Until the sun came up.